I'm unsure of how I've gotten to this point in my life. In all honesty, all the childhood years leading up to this moment are a complete and utter blur. I couldn't remember a thing even if I wanted to. Nothing of substance, anyway. It's as if my mind has been blank for the first 18 years of my life and all the mundane and mediocre things that should have plagued it in the past, take over now. I've never been or considered myself an anxious person, I don't think I could even really explain to you what it means to be anxious, but right now it feels like I'm being stabbed in the stomach and my eyes don't know where to look and my mind is racing... I wonder if I'm the only one who's very very thirsty right now. I really hope I'm not the only one. What will they think of me if I am? I'm unsure (of everything) but I think that this is the closest to anxious I've ever been and it really is quite the horrible feeling. I look up ahead, in front of me at the girl behind the cash register who I must be making wait. Her dull green eyes are caked with dry black eyeliner, I assume it's there to hide the bags under her eyes but they are still quite visible. I almost wonder to myself if she's tired or not but I don't wonder it, because instead, I remember why the hell I'm in this dingy gas station in the first place.
"Can I help you?" this must be the third time she's asked, her gum clicking getting more aggressive each time. I finally snap myself back into reality and place the two jugs of bleach and a twenty-dollar bill onto the counter. She doesn't seem phased by the strange man purchasing two litres of bleach at almost four in the morning, as if it's a usual occurrence. It's almost concerning that she shows no concern but the relief that I'm not being questioned or looked at funny overpowers the concern.
"Is that it?" I nod my head. Her expression doesn't change as she rings me up and our hands touch when she returns me my change. It's not in a romantic or Shakespearean way, though, her hands are strangely sweaty. Shoving the change into my pocket, I nod at her again, take the bleach and leave the store.
Something they don't tell you about turning 18 is how much more anxiety-inducing life is. I could be kicked out at any time and it would be perfectly legal. I spent my childhood walking on eggshells but this type of nervousness is different. I release a sigh as I try to wipe the last of the blood off the hardwood floors in the living room. This is the third night in a row I've let Richard, my mother's inadequate boyfriend, beat the shit out of me. I try not to let the frustration of having to clean up my own blood off of the floor get to me. I got rid of most of the blood but ran out of bleach halfway through which was very inconvenient. Going to the gas station gave me a chance to try and calm down. It wasn't a very successful attempt though. The struggle that is the exhaustion that comes with living with an alcoholic mother (and her boyfriend) is another thing they don't tell you about turning 18. It's a very strange situation to be in, you don't even really realize you're in any particular situation until a certain age where you can finally begin to hold a grasp on things. I always have admired children's inability to understand simple concepts. Maybe I'm envious of them. This whole situation, ordeal if you will, the whole 'life' thing, is quite a paralyzing experience. Not in the way you'd think, not in the way where the fear is so gripping that you become torpefied. No, it's more that I feel nothing, at this point. I'm numb to the fact that I just got the life beaten out of me. It's probably a worse thing that I feel nothing but, then again, I rarely ever feel anything except for the thick numbness that coats my personality. So maybe it makes sense that I'm benumbed, cleaning up my very own blood that's on the floor because of a man I barely know, with bleach I spent my last twenty on.
She woke up in a terrible mood. I knew she'd be angry, because she's usually angry, but not to this degree. I sit on the couch in the living room, trying my best to avoid the spot where the blood was despite the blood being completely cleaned up and gone. The cup of chamomile I made earlier, it's probably cold now. Maybe angry isn't the right word, maybe upset? I'm not sure how to describe my mother but she is definitely a character. I've never really understood her but she has made sure to try her best to keep me on my toes. I've become desensitized to her abnormal behaviour, anytime she yells or screams which is fairly often, I find myself becoming disconnected from reality in general. I never feel quite like a real, living being. I expected this morning to be one of those mornings where I awake to the sound of her yelling and seething. I was right, of course. I would probably be mad too if I woke up to my cokehead boyfriend of six months (a world record for her) gone missing. I realize that I'm the last one he saw last night and I'll probably be the one forced to go out and look for him. The fact is a bit ironic when considering the fact that he hated me more than I hated him, which is saying a lot. She finally storms down the stairs, the anger is almost visually visible... tangible.
